The Dark That Died
by babyb26
Summary: After nearly 20 years John Smith journeys back to the New World and to a new life. Looking for redemption and solace, he tries to reconcile his past while facing a new adversary unlike any he's ever seen-something incarnate and bent on trying to destroy him and those he's trying to protect. Pocahontas AU.
1. Chapter 1-The Awakening

I'm back ladies and gents! It's been awhile after getting hit by a car, physical rehab, work, and life majorly got in the way. FYI I am very rusty, still hurt, and have very little free time, but they say writing is the best therapy one can buy, so here I am! I hope to update this once a week and have this finished by April, so bear with me and let's go on this journey together! Disclaimer: this story is historical fiction and is not written for profit, but for entertainment purposes only. Any original characters are my own and please ask me if you would like to use them. This story takes place after P2JTNW, so constructive criticism is welcomed, especially since I am very rusty, but no historical inaccuracy rants. I am an Early American historian and trust me, I know the reality! Also, I am looking for Betas, so please PM me if you are interested. Enjoy!

 **This fanfic is dedicated to my mother, of whom I will meet on the other side. Love ya ma.**

After nearly 20 years John Smith journeys back to the New World and to a new life. Looking for redemption and solace, he tries to reconcile his past while facing a new adversary unlike any he's ever seen-something incarnate and bent on trying to destroy him and those he's trying to protect.

 **The Dark that Died**

 **By**

 **Babyb26**

 **Chapter 1-The Awakening**

Chapter Inspired Music- Bones by Ms/Mr (pronounced Miz Mister) from album Secondhand Rapture.

1633 Werowocomoco Village, Virginia

The winter night was as cold as bone and dark as ebony. The only light this night came from a pale moon, which hung low in the sky and illuminated its way through the smoke holes of the village's longhouses. In the silent night, only the cries of babies and lovers pierced through the thin walls, and the air was mingled with the scents of sacred herbs and bear fat. The silence of the night was shattered with one long piercing cry, which spoke of great pain. When men's shouts and foot falls reached the desolate longhouse, there was no reply of needed aid or welcome, only a visceral sound that the dead or dying made. Only the bravest of these men dared reach for the woven reed door and it moved, with ease, with a copper red hand. The long cry stopped abruptly, as the men dared enter into the longhouse. One lone hide covering prevented the men's admittance into the next room, which was lit in a blaze of orange-white light. Beneath the long hanging covering, red rivets flowed toward the native men. Although trained to face the mightiest of their countrymen and the dirty pale wolves that had invaded their shores, what the native men found in the dead of night-in that foreboding longhouse- was incarnate.

1633 St. Margaret's Abbey- Westminster-London, England

"I am giving you this task not because I aimlessly choose too, but because you are now ready and happen to have the most experience in this place it seems."

The chiding elder voice echoed through the marble and gilded walls of the sanctuary. As usual, this answer made no sense nor was it what John Smith truly wanted to hear.

"It's been…but why?" his words of protest came out wary and slightly anguished, which was the usual for him presently.

The younger man's questions were cut off before he could truly begin his inquest and he had the inclination that this would become a trend in his life.

"I know you haven't been outside these walls much in fifteen years, but our bishop says you're ready and I agree."

A skeptical look pulled across John Smith's face; he was still too worldly in his opinion. However, a demure smile danced across the old Anglican priest's face.

"I know that look!"

The old man knew what cards to play on him and deep down the Smith knew that he was called, he just didn't know why. He didn't know the path his new life would take next, as it had been in his old one, however this time-this time- he knew better. He be damned if he failed, he owed her at least that much.

"Son I tell you are ready to face the daemons of your past." The old man placed a comforting hand to his shoulder.

There wasn't much for John Smith to say but, "tis be His will."

Turing from his friend and mentor, he prepared to cross the vast expanse of the nave, but he halted when he heard his name called.

"John Smith… The Father is with you."

Turing back toward his fore fronted task, he pushed through the ancient wooden doors into the sunlight of the day, headed to a world he vowed never to return.

The outside world had grown since John Smith's last venture out of the gated and crumbling brick walls of the four hundred year old abbey, one of the few old Henry let be. As he made his way to the quay, he sensed the changes of the world and of himself. The Magdalenes, with rouged faces and half covered peaks, still smiled and called out to him as he passed. However, his forty-six, come January forty-seven year old body did not move as quickly as it once did, nor did he hold appealing the streaks of silver, which dulled his once vibrant corn-silk colored hair. Cloistered and secluded he had studied the word of God and man, prayed, and asked forgiveness for his great many sins. He had willed away all thoughts and longings of his previous life, as he studied and worked to fill the ache in his heart. He had aged humbly in seclusion, yet the outside world had continued to progress forward hurriedly and had blossomed ever deeper into darkness. In his opinion, which no one at the abbey seemed to take into count, he had succeeded- he was or had been ready- that was until they told him of his placement. He was to be pushed back into the world of pain, from wince he'd sought shelter from. Turning on to the quay, he was left wondering- _why_? Of all the lands to be discovered and proselytize to in the world, why would the church send him there? Reaching the Mary Mora he certainly had no answer, but then again his will also was no longer his own.

The ship was dank, dark, and dismal and for much of his life this boisterous vagabond world had been home. On silent nights in the abbey, he recalled the rolling waves that had once lulled him to sleep and caressed his wounded soul. He had missed it. However twenty years older, the lust for adventure and to see beyond the next horizon had passed. The world of the ship and discovery no longer had its appeal over him or his soul. Siting his satchel on the narrow cot he turned to discover the space he would call home for two, and if the wind was not with them nearly three months. He was delighted to discover a bookshelf, small writing desk, and mirror.

 _Surly Reverend Paul would not call his amusement vanity?_

Walking over to the tarnished mirror he stared at himself, the white banded collar around his throat, its two tails falling downward on to a still broad chest. His black robe oddly accented his frame, which was still visibly muscled in the dark garment. As he stood at the mirror he fought to understand his transition, a transition that had brought him closer to God but had left no visible mark upon his person. The church said he was ready, but was he? Was he still that man of fifteen years ago, trapped in grief and despair, or had he truly surrendered himself? Could he do this, go there? Looking at his reflection he found his answer. Turning, he gathered his modest belongings and headed to the room's door. The door moved inward as he touched the handle.

"Do my mine eyes truly deceive me mate? Are ye truly a black robe Smith?"

He recognized the brogue laced voice that called to him, it had been seventeen years but it rang true and clear as a bell.

"Lon?"

The once burly red headed man stood at the door blocking his path. Fifteen years ago, that would not have been a problem, but now he was different and it seemed his God was keeping him aboard this rotting ship for a reason. Like expected twins another voice chimed in, one he also knew too well.

"Ben?"

Now, with the two men - his former friends- blocking his way, escape was futile and the need for flight drifted out left him like morning mist. The satchel in his hands fell back onto the bed and he conceded.

"Tis gotten into ye mate," Lon's accent was still thick even after thirty years of living in London.

Could he tell them? Could he tell them why he turned to God, about trying to forget her? He placed a warm hand on their shoulders and answered their question,

"Tis me boys… me in the flesh and robe."

The waters had been calm for the most part and unlike his last journey across the vast Atlantic, only one storm had threatened their lives. Unbelieving until that storm, Lon and Ben had given him grief over his new chosen profession. However, during the storm, when not only their lives but their souls were at stake, they had professed and clung to his faith in those treacherous moments between wave and crest. Leaning against the wooden railing a smirk crossed his face,

 _Reverend Paul would be happy to know he took no pride in their reliance._

Like he himself, Lon and Ben were shocked at his transition that had yet left no visible mark except for on his soul. They had not so much as doubted him, but deeply questioned how he, a man who knew every good pub and brothel in London, could give up the drink and flesh so easily. Truth was, on cold nights he craved like any man, but his taste for flesh ended nearly Nineteen years back, when he walked away and she, Pocahontas, chose the love of another for a second time. After her, what woman could tempt him? What woman could replace her in his heart? None, of this much he was assured.

After many nights filling in the lost time of their lives to him; Lon having been chased back to England after a botched sheep stealing swindle in his native Scotland and Ben having traveled back to Jamestown, and failing disastrously as a tobacco farmer, he bristled at the mention of Rolfe's trade, Smith opened up as to why the brotherhood of the cloth became his home. They understood and tried in their small ways to prepare him for the journey ahead.

"John have you heard she's….?"

Smith cut Lon off so fast that he surprised himself. Lon seeking to force him to want to know said,

"Now mate, this tis to know when you get to Jamestown ye won't be surprised that she …"

Lon had almost completed his sentence when John Smith abruptly left the room and made his way out onto the deck. Standing against the weathered wood and sea, Smith pondered.

 _Did he really run from all matters of the heart?_

In the past, give him a Turk to kill or a mountain to climb and he would do it, but tell him then or now about the woman he once loved and he runs.

"What does this make me?" he voiced aloud.

Both Lon and Ben caught up with him. After this last encounter and seeing the, not quite dead, anger in his eyes- wisely chose to not be throttled by the handsome middle aged priest. This knowledge brought a wide smirk to John Smith's face, they'd let him figure things out once he got to Jamestown.

 _Reverend Paul would call the smile on his face pride_.


	2. Chapter 2- The Welcome

**Chapter 2- The Welcome**

 _Big thank you to all those who have reviewed and sent awesome PM's! I know there is a glitch issue going on with my reviews and I can't see them, but know that your kind words are appreciated!_

 **1633 August Jamestown, Virginia**

Chapter Inspired Music- First Resurrection by Rob Simonsen from the soundtrack of The Age of Adline, Bones by Ms/Mr (pronounced Miz Mister) from album Secondhand Rapture and Die Another Day by Madonna.

"Make ye way men, land ho!"

The call had been made and John Smith with one pack over his shoulder and one in his hand climbed down into the rocking row boat. Like every other town he ever visited, he smelled it before he ever saw it. Gone was the smell of freshly hewn pine and turned earth, now thick scents of shit and garbage filled his nostrils- as was befitting a town of Jamestown's size. The wooden palisades that his sweat and blood went into building stood tall and imposing. He saw the banner men wave them passage inward and the twelve pounders thundered in response to their welcome, he shuddered. Too long had he been from these seafaring traditions or had he become easy of fright with old age. Of either choice, he could not shake the odd mixture of adventure, trepidation, and hope that ran through his body as the small barge pulled toward the city's dock.

Screaming at the top of her lungs a graying woman grappled with the men pushing their way in front of her.

"No …..damn you and your filthy lot…..Let her go!"

Deaf to the woman's cries the men pushed their way toward the only entirely sound building in the settlement. "Chiktas! …Stop!" The woman's cries were loud enough to distract and the sounds of struggle were odd enough in the bustling street to peek the curiosity of the disembarking men.

"Please… She believes in your God! …Stop!"

His hearing was as sharp as always, the hunched over clergy man and former soldier found the sentence strange. Shifting from his position he turned toward his companions and lifted his satchel upward. Seeing the question in his eyes, Ben waved off the disturbance.

"Tis part the way ery now and again, the drunken lots!"

Ready to dismiss his hearing, John Smith turned toward his companions and prepared to make his way to Jamestown's only inn.

"For the love of your God, let her go!"

Then the loudest scream he had ever heard made its way to his ears.

The sound was high and youthful in tone and relayed the deepest part of fear that he had ever heard. The sound pierced his ears and heart, and his hesitation diminished. Figuring that the poor creature making that banshee of a wail needed peace, the bag in his hand tumbled to the ground and he ran toward that frightful sound. Lon and Ben, whose ears were firmly covered by their thick meaty hands followed suite, just as they always had. The trail of John Smith's robe followed behind him and slowed his rushed progress, but now determined in his endeavor and responsibility-as the town's only priest- he hurried his pace and found the calamity in front of him. Three men, tall and powerful struggled to keep the fighting woman in their grasp. Turned toward her side and her wild main thrown over her face as she rolled in the dirt. The older woman who had first caught his attention with her pleas, fought to pry the flaying woman from the men.

"Peace be still."

The command was not strong in nature nor had he entirely yet figured out what the situation quite was. However, when one of the men backhanded the forty odd year old woman, the anger that he worked very hard to quell in doing God's work manifested itself. Running at the men, John Smith with base and brass shouted,

"PEACE BE STILL!"

And the tussling of bodies, except for the women that the men held stopped. Tired the men paused and the woman rolled from their arms in a sicking loll, she lay silent but jerking on the ground. The men, Jamestown settlers, stood and bent in respect to the cloth.

 _What had they been about to do her he wondered?_

The older woman gained her footing and smashed her small had toward the nearest brute. Her hand did not connect with flesh; it lay still and caught in the grasp of a softened callused hand.

"Peace be still!" the order came out terse and strained and the woman held her peace.

Moving to look upon her rescuer and he facing her full on, he and she crossed the bridge of memory together.

Night- Jamestown, Virginia

The day had been long and the collar around his neck was soaked with his sweat. Rubbing the perspiration from his face, John Smith sat up and reached for his prayer book. Turing toward Revelations he pondered the meaning of this day.

 _Eye to eye they had stood, he could no longer remember her name, but he remembered her all the same. She too startled by long forgotten memory stood wide eyed and in awakened shock. The silence was broken when a wet shuddering grasp raced his eyes toward the ground. The woman in the dirt continued to move and moan._

 _Could it be? Was it impossible?_

 _Reaching out his hands he pulled the pained woman to him and she stilled in his arms. Her hair, covered in dirt and other things, was draped across her face hiding his view. He was afraid to reach out and touch her face, to remove that hair. He wouldn't have if that other woman- that Nakoma, yes that had been her name- had not pleaded._

" _Help her!" and he had._

 _Hope against hope, to see her again, he removed the hair from the injured woman's face._

"…Blessed be thy name. Amen."

John Smith finished his night prayers and lay back down on his bed. He moved into the pillow below his head, it still held her scent.

 _Heaven above forgive me!_

His spirit and heart had lifted, hoping that it had been _her_ , when he removed that hair. Smith had longed for things, particularly the woman he had given up and had to banish from his heart.

 _God above_ _ **She**_ _had been beautiful_!

 _John Smith's breath stopped in his chest and his hand trembled. He could hear Lon and Ben calling him from above, but he was transfixed and stilled by beauty-that same beauty, but different._

As he lay, his breathe came out in a shiver, "Father I didn't know."

 _He had not known and perhaps if he had acknowledged Ben and Lon's forewarning he could have avoided this, but he had assumed that they knew what he had. To his shock, he found that he and they were on two different gossip paths. The woman convulsing in his arms was her-the same, hauntingly beautiful figure that had hunted his dreams. However, the young woman was also no older than nineteen or twenty. Confusion marred his face and he looked back toward his friends, the girl's head rolled on to his black clothed chest in struggle_. _Her hand, uncoordinated in reach, gripped his collar and cross, and pulled him closer in her fight for breath._

To him, she was much like her mother.

"God help me," he whispered toward the heavens.

 _Her plea for life had been heard and his travels had taught him how to fight the spasms of the body. He moved her to the small church, whose foundations and mortar were solid. A stick to the tongue and mouth from Nakoma had saved her out on the dirt, but a concoction he learned to make in the East calmed her tremors. She had lay in a bed that later became his._

Now in reflection and prayer, he realized the full meaning of Ben's warning and Lon's face after they left the ship. The men said the natives thought that the girl was possessed and was taking her to the church in order to drive out a daemon she didn't have. For John Smith, the revelation of who the woman that lay in his arms was-so alike the mother- was a bitter sweet welcome to this forested kingdom.


	3. Chapter 3- The Light

**Chapter 3- The Light**

 **1633 August Jamestown, Virginia**

Chapter Inspired Music- January 1st, 1908 and Adaline Bowman by Rob Simonsen from the soundtrack of The Age of Adline.

 _Silence reigned in forest and the air was cool enough to set dew upon the skin. A light touch fell upon a pine tree, which was as tall as seven men. In the stillness a loan figure walked along the ancient paths of the forest. As sudden as the break of day and as bright as ten suns, a warm yellow light broke upon the earth and that lone form stopped and shielded her eyes from the light._

The sudden gasp of breath started John Smith, and he dropped the bowl of bitter eastern herbs, and holy water from his hands. Apparently she had had enough to stop her convulsions and bring her back from the dark. Instead of cleaning the mess, he went to her as she grasps the sides of the single cloth covered bed, which he had yet to use. Fear came upon him, she looked so much like _her_ with the exception of a lighter, buff gold, skin tone. Twins, no. Sisters – was it possible. However, he knew the answer. _**She**_ , Pocahontas, had a daughter at least nineteen years past.

He reached outward and had to stop himself from gripping her hand like a touchstone. The young woman raised her limp head to his and he saw another difference between the two women, she had eyes with a silver-grayish circle around the center of her obsidian darkness, these were definitely unlike her mother's. A silent stillness settled around them and John Smith was, in a very few times in his life, at a loss for words.

 _What was her name? Had she heard of him?_ _Was she there when the fort had been attacked?_

He had so many questions, but he had not the strength to be the first to speak. Her strength was spent rising her head toward her savior, she began to fall backward toward the bed in weakness and his quick hands shot out to stop her. Pulling her back, she jolted forward and her hands made contact with his chest seeking support. He had not been touched by a woman in fifteen years and the feeling now threated thoughts of _**Her**_ he had put to rest long ago. As suddenly as he pulled the young woman upright he released his hold. Then he heard a voice, it was meek but held a hard edge, an edge that her mother didn't have. He recognized the hardness. Seeing his bewildered look the woman repeated herself, but this time stronger.

"Thank you Father."

 _What could he say when he had so many questions?_

Well, first was first and he reigned himself in.

"You are welcome child," it came out in deep slow syllables.

Seeming to take him in for the first time she stared at the glittering gold, streaked in a few areas with white and cream upon his head, as she moved away from him. Seeing her fear and fearing his own informality, he too moved- his questions could wait. They were both startled when the newly graying Nakoma entered into the room abruptly; it seemed she had never lost that talent to him.

"Child you're awake? Are you well?"

The young woman's black main moved right to left in response to the older woman. John Smith moved to allow Nakoma onto the bed. Nakoma pressed the other woman tight to her chest, but he could still see the woman's haunting black and silver eyes staring at him over her shoulder. Those eyes, unfamiliar but knowing, bore into him and followed him as he exited the room.

"Smith, ye right seen a ghost have ya?" Ben croaked out and John had no right to be mad at him.

 _T'was God's will_.

Shaking his head John Smith followed his companions from the antechamber out into the small area of the chapel- the same one _**She**_ was married in.

Inside the barren bedroom, the younger woman moved away from her godmother and spoke.

"Meda, Nakoma, I feel weak- like I have been beaten by ten men."

Nakoma with a serious face said, "You nearly were child, it was the worst attack I have seen you have these past months."

Shaking her head and then gripping it in pain the young woman lay down.

"Sooleawa, child…" Nakoma was cut off by the young woman.

"It's Rebecca now Meda. I am no longer Sooleawa, once I was joined to their god."

"Child! Child listen to me, you will always be my and your mother's silver star no matter what they call you." "No matter now"- Nakoma patted the young woman's hand.

"But are you still hurt?"

The younger woman slowly moved her head in answer of no.

"Nakoma."

"Yes, child?"

"Who is he?"

"Of whom do you refer young one?" She feared the answer.

"He… the black cloth, the yellow haired man."

Nakoma rubbing Rebecca's hand, withheld her response until she was forced to answer.

Removing Nakoma's hand from her own, Rebecca knowing her godmother's ways of ignoring her questions, demanded this time. Setting up again, she asked insistently, "Who is he?"

Nakoma deep down had known this would happen, she had felt it- she was after all a village priestess.

"Child he was the adventurer, the sailor, the one your mother spoke of…"

"I must know him then," Nakoma was cut off by that whispered sentence and once out in the open- where the gods could hear- the elder woman knew it would come true, after all the great mother and arrow were always right, it seemed.

Well Nakoma could at least try and gathered the woman from the bed and out the door to her home in the growing Virginia town. Before the women escaped completely, a smooth masculine voice that Nakoma had come to remember as John Smith rang out.

"Nakoma, wait! Who is…"

Nakoma pulled Rebecca out of the door faster. Gripping the pine and brick doorway Rebecca answered his unfinished question.

"Sooleawa," why she told him that she did not know, but it was compelled from her none the less.

One more jerk freed her hand from the doorway and Sooleawa was pulled out the door. However, she had heard what she wanted, that was what mattered. She tasted the name on her tongue, so plain and common it was. Yet, she wanted to know much from this priest, this John Smith.

The bright morning light shown directly into John Smith's face and it woke him. Rolling to his side, he hid from those cheerful rays. The pounding on the thick pine door drew him from the bed that was only a few steps from his cot. The pounding was insistent and he swung his pale legs and body from the bed, leaving his night robe and clad only in his short pants. His heavy pads on the wooden floor toward the door echoed in the brick room. Unlatching the wrought iron lock, he pulled open the door and the astonished gasps beyond it caused his eyes to open and look down- some habits died harder than others.

He got through morning prayers that morning with only a slight blush to his face and he counted himself lucky, it could have been worse, only a few eyes look upon him in envy. However, at midday service he found he had full pews; mixed with gentlemen, sailors, soldiers, merchants, farmers, slave traders, Magdalenes, and native women. The last group had him searching the crowded room for Nakoma or Rebecca, no it was Sooleawa.

 _Why did he remember her name?_

To his disappointment he did not see their faces.

 _Was she saved? If not, could he deliver her_?

After the shared midday meal he made his rounds of colony. With a missile in his right hand and his journal in the other, he walked through the bustling town. Jamestown had grown within the last twenty-seven years, from tents and one room cabins to a booming sea port whose staple crop, tobacco, was the ever growing rage in Europe. As he drew near the loading ships he watched the bitter smelling cargo be loaded into the wet holds of tall three mast ships, merchant vessels he knew. Shaking his head, he remembered that before he joined the cloth, one once of the plant brought him a week's stay at a Cheapside brothel.

 _Rolfe!_

Making his way around the corner, he saw another type of cargo being brought in from a Dutch marked ship. Although still rare in the colony, he had heard that every now and again the colony elders allowed merchants to trade their wares and supplies for African indentures, who labored in the ever growing tobacco fields.

 _Rolfe!_

As he watched the glistening black bodies come down the gangplank he shook his head again and sincerely hope that their original indenture term would not become perpetual. He knew what slavery was like and he prayed a silent over them. Making off again, he next wondered into the Rambling Rose Inn, hoping to find his long lost and now found friends.

 _No telling what they were into_ , he smiled at his thought.

The pub of the inn was smoky and dark, and to degree he was happy to hide from the harsh realities of the day. When he stepped into the room the crowd stopped at his nod of hello. They, remembering who he had been, went back to their business- aware that he would be, at some point, working for and praying for their souls. John Smith found Lon and Ben at the gambling area of the inn. As before, they enjoyed losing newly earned pay and watched curiously until Ben turned in frustration and he offered to buy him and Lon a drink, which John obliged. The cloth never forbid drink, as long as it was in moderation.

"Ben how did **Her** daughter… I don't know… survive?" John asked over the tankard of sweet smelling ale.

"John, Opeancanaugh massacred the town and burned he'r to the ground. But he didn't kill off all de wee ones. He killed only de ones of the high up Indian women, they'd given to de colony elders. God en haven John, even De La Warr had one."

John replied in confusion, "If that's the case Ben, she should have been the first to go?"

"I know mate, I's figuring he wanted her for himself and all. He weren't spec'ing no supply ship or the people at the Falls to come in time to help the survivors."

Lon asked the question that had also been on John's mind, "Did they know'n who she was? Whose chile she was?"

"I figures they did, considering she exactly like er ma" Ben answered but continued.

"The settlers took her in on count all the profit her pa made the colony. They put her first with the De La Warr's people, like her ma had been, then to de church as an example."

John could not hide the anxiety off his face, she belonged to the church. He mustered his courage.

"Ben if she's a ward of the church, then where is she?"

"Now, John I said she was given to de church… not that she was part de church…"

John Smith could tell he was not going to like what Ben was going to say next.

"John de elders, they moved her from de church and gave her to de inn ten years back…"

At this John Smith searched the room, scanning for that long black head of hair and light gold skin. Ben seeing that he'd prickled John's sense of new found holiness, or perhaps the fact that the daughter of a woman he loved had been gifted to an inn, he continued.

"Mate, that godmother o'her's parleyed de governor six years ago and promised lasting peace which de natives have followed, but de liken to exile de girl on account of it. De irony is she free from de inn but she can't go back fully into de tribe-she's an outsider to them and the settlers."

John now knew what the hardness was he had heard in her voice, when she first spoke to him, it was loneliness and despair, which had hardened in survival- he understood all too well. John Smith finished his tankard, grabbed his prayer book, dismissed himself from his friends, and walked toward the governor's home as they had a lot to discuss.

The meeting had gone well and as John Smith approached the door of the home he was more than certain that he was doing the right thing.

 _"Smith, old mate what can I do for you, which you have not done for me." He remembered Jenkins being the same honey voice flop that he was now, yet now he held-unlike back then- power. Jenkins owed Smith a favor or two. "Jenkins, I want the church to return to caring for the native girl given over to the inn." Jenkins grin fell from his face as John spoke, "So you found out about that piece of work." Leaning forward, John said-"Were you ever going to tell me what they had done, had I not asked?" "The truth is John, no I was not. Your forerunners were not nearly as concerned as I see you're going to be. I think the girl will be twenty soon-if not already- then we owe her nothing." John was angry again and his voice showed it, "the church and this colony owe her an education at least make up her for her lost childhood. Do you really not know what happens to girls in the inns Jenkins?" Jenkins responded in truth, "No John, I am quilt aware of the musing and road weary trumps of an inn. Might I add that you have also seen these realities as well." The accusation caused John to stand and move toward the door, but the voice of Jenkins stopped him. "John, old friend, apologies-I go too far. I forget that that the sailor and vagabond that I'd known, is long dead and that you are now another. John Smith stilled at the open door. "Smith go offer the girl an education- twenty or not- on behalf of the colony, but I warn you that the Indian wench that watches over her won't let you anywhere near her. John Smith nodded to Jenkins and walked out into the daylight again._

John Smith shuffled at the door of the small Jamestown hut.

 _Did she truly live her? Would she accept his offer?_

Finding his courage, he rapped on the door three times, the wood making loud bangs under his large hand. No answer. He knocked again and this time, he heard light foot falls that would have gone unheard by other men, but which his trained ears still picked up. He waited. He waited so long that he jumped when the door suddenly opened reviling the young woman that he'd rescued less than a day ago. For someone with the falling sickness, she looked well.

 _Not possessed!_

He shook his head. If he had not noticed the way she leaned her weight against the wooden door, he could have sworn she had not been ill at all. Her face was open to the outside light and a soft smile started at across her face. After a moment, he found his voice.

"I am Father Smith- my I have an audience with you?"

She nodded opening the door wider in welcome. "Yes… John Smith." Her words caused a chill to settle over him.

 _Father guide me_!

He thought in prayer and followed her into the fading dark.


End file.
